


A messenger

by eyeslikerain



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: F/M, a bit of ornithomancy, at the Albemarle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 18:33:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10542156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeslikerain/pseuds/eyeslikerain
Summary: The sun had wandered a bit, drawing it’s golden fingers on the old, shimmering floor now. The roses from roomservice she collected in a glass on the nightstand were witnesses of their lovemaking, and she didn’t know if she could ever get herself to throw them away.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JazzBaby466](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazzBaby466/gifts).



> ... for the reading pleasure "Obsessive Minds" gave me, for the rays of light at a gentle angle, the steam of green tea and the absolutely gorgeous dialogue...

Henry left her on Friday around noon after he had spent the night with her at the „Albemarle“. He had an appointment with Julian at two and wanted to change in his apartment before heading for the Lyceum. Camilla watched him from the window, draping the heavy, sand – coloured curtain a little over her naked body. Where was he? She got on her toes to get a better view of the small parking lot. It was overgrown with jasmine and white roses, so abundantly and high that she saw Henry only shortly before he got into his white car and pulled out at a rather exaggerated speed. She sighed. Why was he so exceedingly impatient when driving, and such an indulgent, slow lover?

She stepped away from the window. The faint breeze coming from outside was almost too warm. But lovely, nevertheless. Camilla wanted to take a shower after their interminable lovemaking, but she stopped at the tangled bed on her way to the bathroom. The sun had wandered a bit, drawing it’s golden fingers on the old, shimmering floor now. The roses from roomservice she collected in a glass on the nightstand were witnesses of their lovemaking, and she didn’t know if she could ever get herself to throw them away. She took the glass in her hand and buried her nose in the delicate petals: several white ones, smelling like apricots (Henry had known the name immediately), blushed pink ones and one in a dark shade of red that was almost too dramatic for the elegant room.  
When she thought of last night, she almost got goose bumps. What had happened here, in this bed! And how different it was compared to her encounters with Charles… With Henry, she could abandon herself in a way that was new and unknown to her. She didn’t need to pretend to be strong, invincible and the one who took care of everything. She allowed herself to simply be the girl she was. And she discovered so many new sides of herself by doing so that every night in Henry’s arms left her amazed and elated. 

Only this morning, he had called her “my Penelope” by mistake, and when she smiled and asked how he came to see her like that, he answered gravely:  
“Because that’s what you are. You are my faithful, loyal wife, waiting for me. You are mine.”  
She shuddered. But with his next sentence, all solemnity in his voice was gone:  
“Besides, that’s the name under which I registered you here. I meant to tell you all the time. Penelope Summers.”  
“No!”, she exclaimed, almost crying and laughing with delight at the same time.  
“Yes. You are the summer to my winter. You are warm, and soft, you smell of flowers and bring a breeze of lovely scents with you whenever you enter a room. You are lithe and supple and so full of life. In every aspect, so much the opposite of me. But together – together, we are whole.”  
They were both lying on their sides, his large hand resting warmly on her hip, her hand curled against his breast, beams of sunlight grazing their naked figures. They locked their gazes and didn’t talk for a long time – she, because she had to recover from what was the most romantic outburst Henry ever had had, and he, because he feared he had said too much.

A sudden scratching noise on the windowsill made Camilla jerk around. She was still naked and scared somebody - Charles? - might have climbed the outside wall. What a crazy thought, she conceded, when she saw it was only a very fat, large pigeon which had landed at her window. She didn’t move for fear of scaring it – but the pigeon also didn’t move. It was looking at her with large, round eyes, moving it’s tiny head back and forth, taking a few tentative steps to the side and back.  
“Hello there,” Camilla murmured softly. “Please don’t come in. I’m afraid you might not find out and hurt yourself.”  
The pigeon lingered, looking at her steadily. Suddenly, it made a small, cooing noise and cocked it’s head to one side, as if she wanted to ask something.  
“What is it you want to tell me? Are you hungry? I am so sorry I don’t understand you.”, Camilla whispered, leaning forward a little and placing her hands on her thighs. But at the same time, she understood – she didn’t need to know what the bird was actually saying, she had to read the whole occurrence as a sign. What would Henry say? She smiled. How serious he took all this ornithomancy! A pigeon. Let’s see. Not a wild bird, not a scary one. A sacrifice? She thought so. No, much better: a messenger. Pigeons brought messages, invisible ones from heaven, but also real letters. Maybe they would get an unexpected letter? She smiled, and with a sudden strike of it’s large wings, the pigeon lifted itself from the windowsill and, scrambling from the force it took her to lift herself up so suddenly, tumbled slowly into the blue sky. Camilla shivered.

But only for a second, because she saw Francis’ car turning slowly into the parking lot, into the exact spot Henry had left only minutes ago. Richard was with him. Oh no. How did they know she was here? She turned frantically around, looking for her nightgown. Pulling the delicate ivory fabric over her head and adjusting the thin straps on her shoulders, she hid behind the lacy curtain. They seemed agitated and got out of the car rather hurriedly. She saw them heading for the front door. Camilla thought of rushing to the bathroom, to run a comb through her hair, or to look for some underwear – why were they here? 

But the hotel remained silent. No steps on the staircase or outside her room, no voices. The concierge wouldn’t let them in. Besides, they didn’t know her room number, did they? She went from the bedroom to the sitting room, closing the door half behind her. She loved Francis. She loved him dearly, and it hurt her to be so secretive about her move and her stay here. She would never have thought she was capable of doing this to him. But then – her gaze fell on the cigarette burn near her elbow, which she covered quickly with her hand – these were not normal times. She had to do this for herself as much as for Charles. He would never be strong enough to end their unhealthy relationship, and his possessive behaviour of late had scared her more than once. There had been a time when she had pondered getting married to Francis, just in order to make it look good for all of them, and keep their instable triangle intact. She liked kissing Francis, his soft lips, his smooth cheeks – she always imagined that kissing a girl would feel like this. But she knew their masochistic tendencies would destroy them sooner or later. And masochistic they were in allowing Charles to use and abuse them in the way he did. So, she had to get out of it, with Henry’s help. She knew Francis wouldn’t be strong enough.

A dog barked downstairs. Camilla froze. She heard raised voices, loud steps approaching her floor, a women screaming:  
“Wait! Where are you going?”, followed by a sudden banging on her door that startled her, though she had expected it.  
“Camilla!”, she heard, “It’s Richard! Let me in!”


End file.
